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Looking out the lenses of a microscope 
(I feel like a 19th century explorer—)
Down on a field of erythrocytes whose 
red globular dots span the horizon like 
geographical features do a view from a mountain 
The feeling that I get, is no different from when
I see pictures of the Earth from space, from 
some NASA mission that occurred decades ago—
when cosmic perspective was caught in the 
reaction of photons and chemicals in paper, like
a breath of someone you loved caught, if it could be caught,
in a glass vial, forever to be held close
to the heart—The mind is a rolly-polly, crawling
over time and experience, but most of the time
we’re stuck in a small piece of turf, a small cutting of grass
or twigs or bushes—loamy but parochial; 
Seeing something really small like RBCs or really big
Like the Earth from space, can give us the experience
of crawling over a thousands turfs, over a thousand lifetimes 
And that experience says only one thing: 
You are alive! You are alive!
You are alive! And fuck the rest, the rules, the 
Procrustean ways in which we trap one another 
hurt each other, make each other afraid. Poetry!
Poetry! Poetry! Art! Art! Art! Dance! Sing! A procession of 
feelings, that make you want to burst from your shell 
into pure living—That’s what’s beneath the surface;
That’s the deep truth, the hidden truth: Be! Be! Be!
Thousand complexities like the curlicues of vapor 
off an airplane’s wing, winding around molecules 
and making them sing!


The Great Turf, by Durer.


September 14, 1966 — Backdropped by the magnificent planet Earth, the Gemini 11 Agena Target Vehicle is tethered to the Gemini 11 spacecraft. One of the main objectives of the mission was to rendezvous two objects in space, a major step toward the subsequent Apollo missions when the Command/Service Module docked with the Lunar Module after it landed on the Moon. (NASA)


Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In Bed and In Bed: The Kiss 1892-93

Poetry and art are like thunder to me

How come they’re so hidden in the modern world?

If you spoke out a poem, which had death hidden in it
or life

No one would care, unless you shouted it or screamed

The words themselves would have no meaning

Only experience, observation, thought, feeling make
them real

And our world has too thick a skin, to realize in a flash
like that, something really, truly great or new.

One day, maybe, I’ll commit suicide, so I can become a bunch of microorganisms and decaying organic molecules, instead of a human being. I feel like soil is, in general, more intelligent and has a more beautiful mind than us.

America: where progressive means making shit more difficult for those with the least, and making it less difficult for those with the most.

The water slugs down the incline of the earth
the same way gravity drags a tear down your eye
But instead of cells alive, cells vibrant
it runs along the backs of ancient diatoms
who lost light half a billion years ago

The water is a story, that will speed-up,
and slow, grow narrow or collect—
when it goes deep, it goes direct, with sunlight
going through it, like words might a heart,
filtering through all of this debris, down to
a solid bottom, looking like imperfections in
a diamond a perch or minnow school might
get caught—

As if in a moment of time, when you’re unsure
whether you’re in a dream or not
whether you’re in a memory or not
or if time is still running solid

Like a society where ideas whirl,
where history coalesces into tradition, into
religions and laws and clothing and food and songs
All jumbled up by the travels of explorers and the
cares and worries of those at home—the water
explodes at the molecular level

Fish producing molecules like dandelion puff
and blowing it away like wishes into pools
Leaves leaving the sunlight and flowing down
from above like a colored snow, letting leak
all their insides into the community
of microbes, and solutes in the solvent
which like magic, ties everything together

How come old peoples, could think of Rivers
or Oceans, or Rain as divine things, as old hoary
deities? Because of this complexity—
I don’t think we can begrudge them their beliefs
too much—if anything was a god water ways
would be.

Depth exists everywhere.

If you stuck your hand into a pool of water, you could study that your entire life. You could study it as a poet, as a painter, as a chemist, as a physicist.

It’s not entirely understood, putting your hand into a pool of water. It’s magically complex. What makes light refract, how come the light slows down when it goes through the water. Why does the feel cool, how come your hand can go through it, how come it makes your skin go all squiggly after a while?

Mathematics could cover thousands of blackboards, and yet not perfectly describe its behavior. In general you could describe it, but I mean if you wanted to keep track of every water molecule, every intermolecular interaction.

Some painters specialize in water. David Hockney spent months studying the pattern water makes of sunlight on the bottom of pools for a painting. Poets use water to express all kinds of things.

Something so mundane—a hand in a pool of water. What about a shoe on concrete; a dragon fly; an acorn; the smell of earth; the autumn moon/an autumn wind; a sense loneliness; a sight of love; a taste of bread; a few notes of a song. Depth is everywhere.

How come life isn’t fearsome? Because you can dive into it at any point, and be comforted by mystery.